


When the Spirit Moves

by hauntedjaeger (saellys)



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fantasizing, Missing Scene, Pining, act one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 20:13:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4933738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saellys/pseuds/hauntedjaeger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I never thought to find an ally,” he says. “It means a great deal, even though you probably don’t have a drop of mana in you.” </p><p>Hawke bites her lip hard, but it’s no use. He walked into this one. “No, but I’d like some.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Spirit Moves

“We shouldn’t bother him,” Hawke protests. “Just take me home and bandage me up. This is a nick, it’s nothing. I’ve had papercuts worse.” 

She stumbles--not because she’s drunk, and definitely not because of all the blood she’s lost, but because she’s lopsided. Her companions are all different heights, and that has never been a problem before. They’ve never had to haul her from the Hanged Man to the far end of Darktown before. 

Under her right arm, Varric snorts. “That’s a good line. I’ll have to remember it.” 

“Swagger is inversely proportional to sobriety,” Isabela says from Hawke’s left. 

“Have you met this one?” Merrill is awkwardly close at Hawke’s back, one small hand pressed to the gash in Hawke’s side.  

“Point,” says Isabela, and Hawke wonders, fuzzily, if she should be offended.  

It’s late, but for once Darktown is quiet, or else the Coterie has a policy against attacking injured parties heading north. Hawke blinks at the lit lantern, and Varric yanks the door open, and Hawke still has enough sense to feel abashed when Anders stands from his desk and looks her over, concern and exasperation creasing his brow. “I’d ask what you three got her into, but I know she doesn’t need any help with that.”  

Varric and Isabela walk her over to the nearest cot. To Hawke’s relief, there are no other patients tonight. “She got herself between me and someone’s knife,” Merrill explains.

“And _then_ what did I do?” 

“Made an awful joke,” says Varric. As if she could resist. 

“Bled all over the floor,” says Isabela. Which was mostly the ale’s fault, not Hawke’s. She clots much easier when she’s not drunk.

“Punched him in the face,” says Merrill. 

“Punched him in the face,” Hawke confirms with relish. At which point Aveline dragged the bastard away and Hawke was free to collapse. 

They set her on the stretched hide, and Anders disappears from her view for a moment, then returns with a basin and crisply folded cloth. “Just the one wound?” 

“Oh, her hand!” Merrill chirps. Hawke remembers then, and unclenches her fist to show him the cut where she blocked the first slash. Just her shield arm, nothing vital, but Anders takes her hand in his and shuts his eyes. Hawke feels a tingling warmth as her palm is restored to old scars, calluses, and a short, broken life line. 

Anders turns his attention to her side, where Merrill still holds the flesh closed below Hawke’s ribs. “This will take longer,” he says, wetting a cloth and blotting away the blood that has made it past the pressure of Merrill’s hand. “And I can’t conjure up fresh blood; you’ll have to stay here for tonight, until you can walk on your own. A gang would pick you off in this state, Varric’s bribes notwithstanding.” 

Hawke nods, biting back a smile at what an absolute result this evening has turned out to be. At Anders’s signal, Merrill lets go of the wound. Hawke moves fast. She knows Anders doesn’t need to see the wound to heal it, but this tunic is ruined anyway, so she pulls up the hem. 

Just as she tugs it over her head, a fresh round of dizziness overtakes her. Hawke grabs the edge of the cot behind her, which has the added benefit of putting her at an oblique angle. The muscles of her abdomen are very visible, clenched against pain and vertigo. Above them, her chest is bound to fit beneath the breastplate that she probably shouldn’t have left home tonight, but what’s the point of having such a high pain threshold if she wears armor to a game of Wicked Grace? Anyway, apart from the blood, it’s a nice view. 

Isabela coughs. Varric mutters something that sounds like “Real smooth.” Anders presses a dry cloth over the wound before it can leak still more blood onto the cot. 

“Isabela, yours will stain too,” Merrill points out. Hawke looks away from Anders long enough to see that she did in fact bleed on Isabela: a smear on her right side, and some drops on her shoulder from Hawke’s palm. Hawke winces apologetically, and Merrill says, “Do you have any spare clothes, Anders?” 

“I only own two other shirts. I’ll want them back.” Anders sounds distracted. Probably because he’s forming a globe of healing light in his hand. This was a silly idea--the man sees skin every day, he delivers babies, there’s nothing Hawke could show him that would make him blush. 

“I don’t steal clothes,” Isabela pouts, but she does seem to know exactly which crate he keeps them in. On the way she sheds her bodice… thing, and Hawke looks away from the proud mahogany back that is now bared to her. For Isabela, swagger is directly proportional to nudity. 

The warm feeling is back, but deep in Hawke’s side, and the tingle is more like burning. She inhales, pushing against the cloth and his hand. Anders’s eyes are closed again, his lips parted slightly, and Hawke wishes she could understand this metaphysical process. Healing isn’t Bethany’s area, and she never had opportunity or reason to discuss it with her father. She wishes she knew what it costs Anders to do this for her. 

A moment later Anders takes a steadying breath, opens his eyes, and cleans up the last of the blood. Beneath it is healthy skin. “Done,” he reports unnecessarily. Hawke smiles down at him and Anders mirrors it, though his is a bit wan. 

“Will you be all right here, Hawke?” Merrill asks as she rinses her hands in the basin. “Can I bring you anything?” 

“Thank you Merrill, but I’m in very nice--good hands.” That was an honest mistake. Maker, she’s tired. Anders turns to put away the cloth, and Hawke pulls on the shirt Isabela brought her, aching only a little when she raises her arms. The shirt is faded black, threadbare, and very soft. Hawke likes to think she’s built like an ox, but Anders is broader and the collar would slip down to expose Hawke’s shoulder if she shifts the right way.  

Isabela has shifted the right way in the other spare shirt, and when she bends down to kiss Hawke’s cheek, there’s an entirely different nice view. “Goodnight, human shipwreck. I have some writing to do. And laundry.”  

Merrill puts her arms around Hawke from behind. “Thanks, Hawke. I’d’ve died before we ever made it here.” 

“Come on, Daisy,” Varric calls, and Merrill lets go, and the door shuts behind them.

It’s quiet. Anders bends over the fire in the far corner, hanging a kettle from a hook. It’s a cloudy night and there’s no moonlight through the high windows; the flames and the lamp by Hawke’s cot are the only light. “Do you want something to help you sleep?” Anders asks. 

“I don’t think I’ll have any trouble,” Hawke answers, though her pulse is still up. “You know, this could have been avoided if you just came out with us.” 

“Right, so you can be heroically stabbed as often as you like.” He stops, shakes his head. His hair is limned by the orange glow. “Sorry. It’s heartening to know that you’ll step in front of a blade for a friend.” 

Hawke lets that one go unanswered. Presently the kettle boils, and Anders pours something from it into a battered pewter cup. He crosses the room, back to his desk, where he sits heavily on the stool and starts arranging his papers. “What were you working on?” Hawke asks. “Before I rudely interrupted by nearly dying, that is.” 

“Just a draft. Of a… treatise, I suppose.”  

“Are you going to nail it to the Chantry door?” And then she holds her breath to keep from giggling, because there’s a half-formed line in her head that goes something something like to nail something something. It needs work. She is still _very_ drunk. 

Anders looks at her face, and can probably read everything she’s thinking there. “No,” he says, “I’m not sure what to do with it. Maybe when it’s finished, you can read it and tell me.” 

She sobers quickly. They’ve known each other a handful of weeks. That kind of trust--it has to be maintained. “I’d like that.” 

He stows the papers. “I never thought to find an ally,” he says. “It means a great deal, even though you probably don’t have a drop of mana in you.” He takes a drink from the cup.  

Hawke bites her lip hard, but it’s no use. He walked into this one. “No, but I’d like some.” 

_There’s_ the blush. And then he chokes on his tea. Hawke raises her hands as he composes himself. “Sorry, I know, ‘dangerous,’ you’ll break my heart, and so on.” 

“Add ‘incapacitated with drink and blood loss’ to the list of reasons it’s a bad idea,” Anders says. 

She’s sulking, and it's both juvenile and unattractive, but she can’t stop. “That’s a temporary state.” 

“Frequently.” Anders empties his cup and makes for the cot at the other end of the clinic. As far as he can be from her. “Goodnight, Hawke.” 

“Anders?” He stops, but doesn’t turn. “Thank you. And I’m sorry I’m an ass.” 

“You’re--” He sighs. “Welcome.” 

Subdued, Hawke gets up to snuff out the lamp, and as she sways toward it she sees the feather. She crouches; it’s safer than bending over, but she still sees stars when she stands back up. There’s no dust on the feather. It must have fallen off of him while he worked on her. Hawke blows out the lamp and wobbles back to the cot, unfolds the patched blanket at its foot, pulls off her boots, and lays down, all while rolling the quill between her right thumb and forefinger.  

She should have taken some of his tea--her thoughts are already proceeding down a well-trod path. If ever he overcame this fear of hurting her, it would have to happen here. It certainly wouldn’t happen in the creaking triple bunk she shares with Bethany and Mother. Hawke could buy a room at the Hanged Man, but Anders wouldn’t be comfortable there, wouldn’t feel safe. He needs a... what did he call it?  _Sanctum_.

Here, she could convince him to douse the lantern outside just once, just for a few hours. Darktown could wait that long. Her other ideas need revision now that she has some personal experience: the cot is flimsy, too weak for both of them, and the floor is rough. She dismisses the surgery table as horrendously macabre. But the desk…  

Hawke holds her breath, listening. She hears only the fire. Under no circumstances will she touch herself; it would be unbelievably rude, and if he’s still awake he’d know as soon as her breathing turns ragged. She’ll have to content herself with thought, as ever. 

The desk is solid. They’d have to clear off the books and papers and stands, and then she’d put him on his back. She would be steady. The weight of her over him, her hands on him, she would make him feel safe.  

Is he imagining anything like this? The way that man blushes--has he spared a thought for what it would be like to unwrap the linen from her ribs and free her breasts, to soothe the creases the fabric leaves on her with his fingertips and tongue while she gazes down at him? 

She would ease all the layers off him and run her hands down the length of his arms. She would cover him with her limbs. She would take him into her, and watch the pleasure move up his body like a wave that crests at his face.  

The thoughts chase her into dreams, and Hawke has no rest at all.  

She wakes at daybreak, hungover and miserable. She tries to be quiet as she fishes for her boots and then stands, bracing herself on the corner of the desk. She grimaces at the thoughts she had about that desk. She shoves one hand through her hair, and finds the feather there. She won’t look at the far end of the room, she will not-- 

“You’re not an ass,” Anders says. 

She looks at the far end of the room. He sits on his cot, his back to the wall. His hair is down; there is a bit of wave to it where he ties it back. Without the coat, in his trousers and only remaining shirt, he looks so slight. “Yes I am,” Hawke says. “No one lies when they’re drunk.” 

“Or bleeding to death,” Anders suggests. “Or… asleep.” 

The only voice Hawke can muster is a mortified squeak. “What did I say?”  

Anders keeps his gaze on her as he stands and crosses the space between them. Shit, shit, shit shit shit. At arm’s length he stops, and the cool expression slides off his face, replaced by mirth that is entirely at her expense. “Bastard,” Hawke sighs. 

“I had you.” 

Something something could have her other ways something something. “You dropped this,” she says instead, holding up the feather. 

Anders regards it, but doesn’t take it. “You were going to walk out of here with that.” 

“Are you calling me a thief?” 

His fingers close over hers, warm and deft, and the smile is still in his eyes. “Not as long as you don’t steal from me.” 

She doesn’t want to move, but she ought to leave while the moment is still good, before he goes all serious again. She disentangles her hand from his, leaving the feather. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” she says, flashing the smile that usually convinces people she’s fine. “Thanks again, Anders.” 

“Good day, Hawke.” 

Back in Lowtown she skims a few silvers from her expedition fund, and sends Lirene’s girl to deliver new shirts to the clinic: one white, one grey, and one green. The old black one stays with her for the next six years. 

It surely can’t be stealing if she pays him back threefold. 

**Author's Note:**

> Evidently my narrative buttons are gentle healing masculinity and awkward inappropriate flirting.
> 
> The title is from Van Morrison's "Did Ye Get Healed".


End file.
